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They try to find peace of mind,

A Hypodermic steals the scene.

They freak out, take a trip;

But peace of death, is all that’s been.

They bounce and babble, after the prickle

Of the dullened needle they use;

They squirm and wriggle, trying to find

Peace.  But their minds they lose.

The pusher practices his daily jingle;

To turn on kids wherever he can.

Passing out death in small packages,

Is this what we call a man…?

I had a dream the other night-

Of drugs marching in a straight line;

With hypodermic needles slung at their sides-

A constant battle, of drugs in your mind.

______________End of Poem___________________

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